


rest

by offdensen (Xine)



Category: Half-Life
Genre: American Sign Language, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Gen, LAMBDA CORE: A Half-Life Charity Zine, Mute Gordon Freeman, Post-Half-Life: Alyx, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 07:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xine/pseuds/offdensen
Summary: In the dim light, Gordon can spot signs of crow’s feet perched by the corners of Barney’s eyes, as if he’s still managed to find some happiness — or, at the very least, humor — amidst all the horror here.(Wherein Gordon hits his breaking point and is forced to take some time to rest.)
Relationships: Barney Calhoun & Gordon Freeman
Comments: 10
Kudos: 105





	rest

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in and written for _[Lambda Core: A Half-Life Charity Zine](https://caramujotan.tumblr.com/post/619002205924704256/)_. Art by the lovely [prettycoolducks](https://twitter.com/prettycoolducks).

_She’s gone._

Of all the things he’s seen, of all the things he’s heard, this may finally be what breaks him.

The scientists who died right in front of his eyes, the disembodied limbs of security guards lying in stagnant puddles of blood, the HECU marines who crumpled to the floor lifelessly with a pull of his trigger. The atrophied corpses of those overtaken by Headcrabs, their screams. The enslaved Vortigaunts cowering in fear in dark corners of the cloning facility, the Nihilanth’s deafening voice and blooming skull. The charred remains of civilians left to rot in abandoned alleyways, the Stalkers with bodies so mutilated they barely resemble humans anymore. 

It’s been a waking nightmare since Gordon entered that test chamber, yet nothing managed to fill him with enough terror to bring him down to his knees or trap him in place. He forced himself to keep going in spite of it all — powered by adrenaline, HEV-administered morphine, and countless cans of off-brand soda — not out of want for everything to go back to normal, but to simply survive whatever the universe decided to throw his way.

It worked, for a while.

But he is so tired. Eli is yelling about “unforeseen consequences” and something humanoid moves in the corner of his eye that disappears when he looks over and Gordon can barely stay steady on his own feet. He doesn’t even remember standing back up, doesn’t remember the Combine slug letting Eli go, doesn’t remember how it ended up dead on the ground with its flesh smoldering.

Were it not for his HEV suit, he’s certain he wouldn’t be able to stand upright on his own, the fatigue so potent that his bones begin to ache. There’s a spot in his head — right above his left brow — that throbs with pain, and he should’ve expected he’d develop a migraine after a floating splotch of colors made a home in his sight.

He takes the crowbar as Eli hands it to him and finds it no longer invigorates him as it once did. It rests heavily in his palm, unbalancing his body to an unusual and disorienting degree, and he fears that he may keel over at the slightest muscle twitch.

Eli beckons him to follow as he heads for the elevator, mentioning something about the control room. Gordon takes a single step forward and confirms his suspicions as his knees falter under his own weight, falling forward and nearly face planting into the concrete.

D0G catches him before he does, holding Gordon up with a hand splayed over his breastplate. The sound of metal scraping metal is an assault on his ears, but it’s certainly preferable to a broken nose and an even worse headache. He looks up past the frame of his glasses to see D0G’s face plates pull back, his synthesized voice whimpering in concern.

Within moments, Eli is lifting Gordon’s arm by the wrist and throwing it over his own shoulders, looping his left arm to support Gordon’s back. D0G releases Gordon reluctantly, his singular red eye attentively watching Eli’s posture as he takes on the rest of the weight. He hasn’t known D0G for long, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt safer than when the metal beast is around to give a helping hand.

No wonder Alyx loves him so much.

Eli adjusts his shoulder, gripping tighter around Gordon’s back. “Jesus, Gordon,” he says, craning his neck to get a look at Gordon’s bleary eyes, “why didn’t you say something?”

Unable to use his signing hand, Gordon awkwardly brings his left thumb to his chest and slices his open hand through the air before him, hoping Eli remembers what it means. He’s been doing that a lot lately, unsure if anyone remembers his words as well as they do his face. It’s been a long time since anyone has spoken with him.

“No, you’re not _fine_ ,” Eli scolds, practically dragging Gordon onto the lift platform. He may not be able to see it — his vision swimming with migraine auras — but Gordon can certainly hear the frustrated scowl on his mentor’s face. Not exactly the response he was hoping for, but at least Eli remembers.

As they ascend the rusty elevator, D0G dashes out through the shattered window, his body creaking loudly with every movement. A wave of nausea takes over Gordon from the cacophony of awful sounds filling his ears, and he screws his eyes shut in his attempt to ride it out. He regrets it immediately, as the sensation of ascending without any visual indication that he is moving urges his stomach to expel what little it holds.

They leave the platform, Gordon using all his willpower to move his legs in harmony with Eli’s. From the other side of the door comes voices, the words unintelligible, but the confusion and panic in them more than evident. The door swings open to reveal two rebels, one holding the door open and the other brandishing a pistol leveled at Eli’s nose. 

The gun-toting rebel holsters her firearm into her jeans pocket, inquiring what happened to the two of them as she moves to join Eli in holding him up. She asks questions that Eli answers. He doesn’t know what they say. He thinks the other rebel ran to get the door. Uncertain.

It’s becoming harder and harder for Gordon to focus. Gravity pulls him down, sapping all his energy, and he lets it take him with it.

He becomes awashed with guilt when the rebel — he recognizes her, knows her name, can’t remember what it is, why can’t he remember her name — grunts as he goes limp, but he has little choice in the matter. If he shuts his eyes again, he’ll pass out.

The three of them rush their way across the open walkway and into the control room, the sounds of cheering, singing, and toasts being made filtering from down the valley. He wishes he could join their enthusiasm for closing the portal, rejoice in living another day with more to come, but he feels like he’s dying, like he’s clinging onto something flimsy and futile and it’s about to slip through his fingers.

Wherever Alyx went, part of him left with her.

* * *

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

His vision fading in and out, Eli and that rebel dragging him through the door, meeting with a distressed Kleiner — that he can recall. How he ended up lying down on a cot in a nearly pitch-black room without his HEV suit or glasses on is but an enigma to him. 

The expected response to such a situation would probably be to enter fight mode, to find a blunt object, let adrenaline take over and be ready to beat to death anything — or anyone — that tries to stop him in his wake. His veins begin to run hot.

As quickly as it came, however, the rush to escape dissipates. Were he to be held captive, he’d anticipate more stringent methods to ensure his imprisonment. With some tentative wiggling of his limbs, Gordon confirms that he is not, in fact, restrained. The cot could hardly be considered comfortable — being marginally better than sleeping on cold concrete — and the lumpy pillow is no better. With a quick skim of his fingertips across his face, he finds a damp washcloth folded over his forehead.

He hasn’t slept in a bed since the day of the Resonance Cascade, when he snoozed through his alarm one too many times and ended up over half an hour late to the test chamber.

Sometimes, he wonders if waking up on time would’ve made any difference. A butterfly flaps its wings and history is changed forever. Gordon Freeman gets to work thirty minutes late and the world goes to hell.

There’s a shuffling sound to the right that halts that line of thought, every muscle in Gordon’s body involuntarily tensing once more. He looks over to see if he can identify it, but without his glasses in this blackness, he may as well be blindfolded. An itch at the back of his head screams at him to get up, to punch and kick his way to the door, wherever it may be. _Run, out, get out!_

A sigh — a tired one in a voice he recognizes.

Immediately, all the tension withers away once more, relieved at the sound. He reaches a hand out. Patting around for a surface, his fingers cut through the air before clumsily stumbling upon synthetic fabric. At the moment of contact, the other person starts with a jump and a gasp to match. They turn around in a rush and even in the dark, Gordon can make out the blurry visage of Barney Calhoun.

“Gordon!” he whispers, scrambling to the right and stopping just beside Gordon’s head. 

Light slowly fills the room as Barney fiddles with an old, solar-powered lantern settled atop an overturned milk crate, the lamp flickering as he fiddles with the dial. Gordon rolls his head to the side and squints up at Barney’s face, the concern lining his brow so deeply that not even Gordon’s nearsightedness can obscure it. Others being worried for him fills him with guilt. He hates it.

Pulling the washcloth off his face, Gordon sits up and winces, pain piercing through the length of his left ribcage. Instinctively, he brings a hand to his side, cupping it gingerly. Really, he shouldn’t be surprised; he’d sustained that wound during the ambush at the inn on their way to White Forest. A Hunter got the jump on him. Without the HEV suit regularly pumping him with morphine, he can no longer ignore it.

Once he’s gotten the lantern set to a comfortable brightness, Barney shifts and turns directly to Gordon. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops. The pause that follows seems exorbitantly long, but Barney eventually stammers out, “I didn’t know you were awake.”

Gordon doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. It’s strange, Barney not knowing what to say. He’s usually so quick on his feet. 

Bringing his hand up by his eye, Gordon makes a C-shape and taps his face a few times, raising his eyebrows in a questioning manner. The knot between Barney’s brows deepens like he doesn’t understand. Pushing away the sense of defeat pooling in his chest, Gordon leans forward and brings his other hand up, repeating the motion with both. If Eli can remember “fine,” then surely Barney knows what the formal form of “eyeglasses” looks like.

Barney’s expression brightens. “Oh! Uh,” he starts, his eyes scanning around the tiny room. He crouches and peers underneath the cot, then returns with a pair of black frames. “Here,” he says, unfolding the arms. He gestures them at Gordon’s face and Gordon merely nods in return.

With some fumbling, Barney guides the glasses onto the bridge of Gordon’s nose, Gordon taking over to settle them properly along his ears. His vision restored, Gordon discovers Barney looks about as exhausted as he feels, dark circles underlining half-lidded eyes. His hair got messier in the interim since they last saw one another. What he assumes is ash and gunpowder adds to his disheveled appearance, and Gordon wonders how he hasn’t passed out on the floor by now.

Gordon scoots aside, pushing himself flush against the wall, careful to not aggravate his wound. Barney takes the offer wordlessly, pulling himself off the hard ground and sitting crookedly on the cot. Even though he hardly takes up any space, Barney’s presence on the bed makes Gordon feel small. He hasn’t felt slight next to another person in a long time. The HEV suit makes sure of that.

“How are you feeling?” Barney asks.

Gordon looks away, unsure of what the answer could be.

Barney frowns. “I talked to the vortigaunt that treated you, and he said that, aside from that gash in your side, you’re fine. Medically speaking.” He pauses, his eyes flickering back and forth between Gordon’s own. “But I want to hear from you that you’re okay.”

He may not be fading in and out of consciousness, may not have a migraine drilling into his brain anymore, but he doesn’t feel okay. The current state of the world could be — should be, in his mind — blamed on him. The onus to fix it has been placed on him since he pushed that sample into the Anti-Mass Spectrometer, and yet, in spite of the chaos and destruction that follow him, there are somehow people who revere him. Some as a hero, others as a messiah. It makes him sick to his stomach.

Gordon just shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about this. “How long was I asleep?” he asks, counting on Barney to recall what a hooked finger tapping the wrist and a hand closing down the length of the face means. Eli picked up sign more efficiently than Barney ever did, and though he never held it against him, Gordon wished he didn’t need to dig for the pocket notebook and pen he kept on his person as often as he did, back when things were normal.

He lost the book at some point after the incident at Black Mesa and neglected to find a replacement. Between repairing nuclear coolant silos, returning gunfire from marines, and dodging energy blasts from mind-controlled vortigaunts, getting a new notebook wasn’t very high on the priority list. 

They’ll just have to do this the hard way, if it comes down to it — provided Barney still remembers fingerspelling.

Barney tilts his head. “I think... are you asking how long you were out?”

Gordon nods, a little relieved.

“Nearly two days. Took me about that long to get here,” he states, body deflating like he just realized how tired he is. Gordon can’t help but empathize. “I helped the rebels set up camp with some citizens at an old village several miles out. Got here as quickly as I could.”

There’s an addendum to that statement that’s left unsaid. Gordon isn’t sure of what Barney knows, of what he’s been told. Did Barney rush here because he was going to anyway? Or did he receive word through the grapevine?

Does it really matter at this point?

Gordon’s gaze shifts away to bore a hole into his boxer shorts. Barney follows suit, averting his eyes to stare off in the near distance. A silence settles over them, Barney’s jaw set tight, Gordon’s hands limp in his lap. It lasts for some time, and every second is excruciating.

Another sigh reaches Gordon’s ears, this time determined. He returns his gaze towards Barney, who starts pulling at his middle finger, wriggling his left hand out of its glove. He does the same with the right. As soon as he has both off, he tosses them to the floor and immediately brings a hand to Gordon’s throat.

Gordon flinches involuntarily, at a loss for what Barney’s going for. Nevertheless, he doesn’t back up or push Barney away. Part of him is painfully desperate for touch, or at least any kind of contact that isn’t the butt of a gun to his head or the tongue of a barnacle slithering around his neck. Kind touch. Human touch.

He thinks about Alyx hugging him after D0G found him in the rubble of the Citadel, about how warm she felt even through the suit. Her smile at the sight of him was so wide and bright. A lump forms in his throat.

Gingerly, Barney presses two fingers in the soft spot below Gordon’s jawbone, counting under his breath as he holds it there. Gordon watches him as he works, fully taking in his face for the first time since fate seemingly reunited them at that security checkpoint.

Overall, he doesn’t look too different from their days at Black Mesa. He’s aged delicately, considering the kind of world he’s been living in. In the dim light, Gordon can spot signs of crow’s feet perched by the corners of Barney’s eyes, as if he’s still managed to find some happiness — or, at the very least, humor — amidst all the horror here.

There’s a scar on his cheek now, a thin, pale line stretching diagonally along the curve of his left cheekbone. From the clarity and straightness of it, he must’ve gotten it from either a blade of some kind — a manhack, most likely — or a bullet that merely grazed his skin. Reflecting back on their conversation in the interrogation room, Gordon looked right at that scar, yet his brain didn’t fully see how different it was, how much it conflicted with the face he remembered.

Everything feels like that now; the same yet so different. Eli and Kleiner — they’ve aged, obviously, but their personalities have hardly changed. They’re greyer now, including Barney, if he looks hard enough. In the stubble of his beard and the wisps along his temples, Barney sports a few stray white hairs, a sign of all the time that’s passed.

Barney mumbles something about his heart rate being normal and brings the back of his hand to Gordon’s forehead. He feels warm.

Less than two weeks ago, Gordon was Barney's senior by one year, and the two of them had just raced one another to Kleiner's office for the umpteenth time in search of his keys. Now, Barney is pushing fifty and Gordon remains frozen at twenty-seven, taking secret channels out of the city so as to not risk imprisonment, torture, or worse. Gordon’s braved through hell several times over in the span of six days, but Barney’s had almost a quarter of a lifetime seeing firsthand the abuse, mutilation, and violation a species can endure before complete and utter assimilation.

They’re worlds apart from one another — Alyx another from them.

That’s what it comes down to, he thinks, and perhaps that's what makes it so painful to see all the evidence left by the passage of time. Eli and Kleiner are important people to him, too, but as his mentors and work superiors, his relationships with them aren't particularly close. With Barney, however, the two of them could've gone to high school together, were they in the same place at the right time. 

If it feels like he's been left behind, it's because he has, though not because any of them decided to abandon him or his memory. That strange man gave him an impossible choice with no means to escape, and everyone else was left to wonder where he went.

Before, he could quantify his life in terms of successes, of gains. He built a tennis ball cannon powered via butane when he was only a few months into the first grade. He graduated high school a year early, completed his bachelor’s degree within three, and got accepted into MIT’s doctoral program for theoretical physics before he even walked for graduation. He completed all two hundred and thirty-seven pages of his thesis in fourteen months. He began his academic research career in Innsbruck and, when he grew weary of it, got a job offer from his mentor at one of the top research facilities in North America.

Now, though, he is haunted by loss. Time continued on without him for over two decades and everything that he could've come to know in those years are forever lost to him. His childhood home is gone. MIT is likely nothing more than ruins of a once lively campus. Black Mesa has been obliterated by a nuclear strike and everything he owned along with it. Every photo of his family, every birthday card he received, every book he loved — out of reach or disintegrated entirely. He doesn't know — and likely never will — what became of his mother, or his brother, or his newborn niece after the Resonance Cascade.

Barney nods wordlessly, seemingly satisfied with Gordon’s temperature. “Lemme check your bandages,” he murmurs, leaning over Gordon’s lap to lift the side of his shirt. Gordon's eyes begin to sting.

With the superportal closed, he should feel at least a modicum of peace, a sense of security that they prevented what would be — in Eli’s words — a seven minute war. Yet, the weight upon his shoulders feels even heavier than before, knowing that the struggle is far from over and the only certainty he has is that more and more people will die.

Death seems to follow him everywhere, often against his best efforts to prevent it. Save a select few, most of the people he’s come across since the incident have died, be they a random citizen who managed to escape, a rebel guiding him through the railroad, or a resistance fighter who kept their head above cover for just a second too long. He’s wanted to be able to give them the proper respect after their passing — the least he could do as one of, if not, the last person to interact with any of them — through a burial or a brief service, but the circumstances never allowed him enough time.

The thing he fears the most is that pattern will continue and extend to those he cares for. A selfish act, probably, to carry less concern for the deaths of those he knows hardly, but Barney, Kleiner, and Eli are the few ties he still has from the past, to remind him of what kind of person he was before killing to survive became a necessary task everywhere he went, when he was crawling around in vents for low-stakes competition and not survival. When the most grueling thing he had done was writing his doctor’s thesis and not slaughtering dozens of marines with their own weapons.

Alyx became the rope that kept him moving forward, guiding him through this mind-numbing future, proving to him how vivacious the human spirit could be even under the most dismal of circumstances. Running for his life alone was hard before he met her and it only became harder after he did. She became his solace of sorts, assuring him that — for all the mythologizing the Resistance had done to him — he was merely one person trying to survive, just like the rest of them. The only difference was the suit.

And now she’s gone. Eli insisted that their “mutual friend” had something to do with it, but Gordon can’t be sure. All he knows is that he lost her. Alyx is missing and they have no idea where to start looking.

The tears run hot as they roll down his face.

He usually isn’t one to give in to hopelessness, but how do you search for someone who vanished without a trace? Where are you to even begin?

Barney, his hands gentle and mindful, skims the surface of the bandages. “It’s dry, so that’s good,” he notes, pulling the cotton shirt back down. “Impressive that it hasn’t gotten infected, really.”

Gordon sniffles involuntarily and the sound makes Barney still, hunched awkwardly over Gordon’s lap. He leans back after a moment, placing his hands on Gordon’s shoulders. He’s probably looking Gordon in the eye when he does, but Gordon can’t tell, the tears blurring his vision so intensely that he may as well not be wearing his glasses again.

“Hey, hey,” Barney says, his voice soft but his tone alarmed. A hand drifts away from Gordon’s shoulder and begins rubbing the length of his bicep. “Gordy, what is it?”

There’s something about the combination of the nickname — hasn’t heard that one since before the Resonance Cascade — and Barney’s frantic soothing that makes him smile, as strained as it is.

Pushing his glasses up and over his forehead, Gordon rubs at his eyes, not taking particular care to avoid smudging the lenses as he does. He lets out a shaky breath, faint and stilted, as more tears threaten to fall from his eyes. It’s hard to make eye contact like this — the vulnerability that comes with weeping overwhelming — so he keeps his gaze downward.

Gordon makes a tossing motion over his shoulder. Deliberately signing slowly to be sure Barney can catch all of it with minimal error, he says, “I missed you.” Gordon pauses, taking a sharp breath in. “I miss Alyx.”

It’s silent for a moment. Then, wordlessly, Barney wraps Gordon into a hug, his chin resting solidly atop his shoulder. Gordon doesn’t hesitate, returning the embrace with spindly, clumsy arms. He’s been wearing the HEV suit for so long, he almost forgot what it was like to move without it on. 

They stay like that for a while, Barney running his hand up and down Gordon’s back as Gordon tries and fails to stifle his tears. It’s hard not to succumb to his own shame — born from survivor’s guilt, probably, but he doesn’t really want to ponder on its origin — but he can’t help but feel the slightest bit guilty that Barney has taken to comforting him. He’s seen the worst of it for much longer. Gordon is lucky in comparison.

It’s funny. Underneath the stench of sweat and dirt, Barney smells just like he used to, back when they would unwind over a couple beers at the Level 3 pub after a long day. He can recall several times when Barney would share some of Otis Laurey’s latest shenanigans in Area 8 and then fall into a fit of drunken giggles against Gordon’s arm. He doesn’t remember the stories, but he remembers Barney’s laugh and the way his hair would get locked into the shape of his helmet by the end of the night.

For just a few seconds, things feel normal, like he hadn’t been flung twenty years into the future.

Barney lets go and it suddenly feels colder. Gordon looks up at his face and sees all the little signs of age, the grey hairs and the crow’s feet. The dirt and the gunpowder serve to not only emphasize the dark stubble lining his jaw, but also how leading a rebellion for over a week will make anyone look like hell. They make eye contact and the sheer amount of exhaustion he sees in Barney’s gaze is enough to put him back into survival mode.

Maybe, with just a little more hard work, this will all be over.

Maybe he can return to a life of somewhat normalcy and be able to share it with people he knows, not total strangers in a strange future.

Gordon, brushing away the last of his tears, points at Barney’s chest. He brings his hand above his forehead and circles his index finger around his face, then trumpets his lips a bit as he presses his knuckles underneath his chin and wiggles his fingers.

The sentence simply rewards him a confused squint and Barney asking, “Uh... what?”

Gordon can’t help the wince of frustration that contorts his face. That last sign is probably one Barney never learned, rather one he had forgotten over the past two decades. Gordon switches to fingerspelling, slowly signing, “Face dirty.”

A moment passes as Barney processes what was said. 

“Oh.” He drags his thumb along the scar on his cheek and inspects the ashy grime left behind, letting out a chuckle when he does. “Yeah, no big surprise there.”

Taking the washcloth in hand and unfolding it, Gordon thinks briefly before making an easy decision. He centers the cloth on his palm and brings it to Barney’s face.

“Whoa,” Barney laughs, clearly surprised but not moving to stop him. The grin on his face gets just a little wider, a little more impish. “You could at least get me a drink first.”

Gordon purses his lips at that — admittedly amused at the overdone joke himself — but elects to say nothing of it. He begins to wipe away the grime along Barney’s skin, gently going against the grain of his brows after cleaning off his forehead.

The room falls quiet as Gordon works, taking care to get all the dust that’s made a home along Barney’s hairline as he cleans the sides of the man’s face.

For filth that's been building up for several days, it comes off pretty easily with just a damp washcloth. Barney probably won't feel much cleaner — he'll need a good scrubbing with actual soap to clean out his pores — but at least he'll look more put together and less like a dead man walking. Gordon can only imagine how he himself has looked over the past couple weeks, covered in human, Combine, and Xenian blood; drenched in polluted water and coastal sands; and littered with scratches and lacerations. Seems that whoever was tasked with tending to him during his coma-like state was kind enough to give him a sponge bath.

What he wouldn't give for a shower, though.

"Hell of a bedside manner you have there, Doc," Barney says, lips stretched into a shit-eating grin. "Such a motherly touch."

Gordon slides the cloth down the slope of Barney's nose and promptly pinches his nostrils, hard. It earns him a flurry of nasally objections and he snickers at the sound of it all as Barney implores him to stop.

He acquiesces, releasing Barney's nose and continuing in cleaning off his face, working along the stubble. Barney grumbles under his breath, but a crooked smile remains as he soothes his aching nose.

While he wipes off the rest of the grime along Barney's jawline, Gordon finds himself filled with newfound confidence. Finding Alyx amounts to an incredible task — impossible, were he to be truly honest — yet it's beginning to seem not so insurmountable, provided he and Eli get a few helping hands.

He hopes Barney can be one of them. They've both walked through hell and back before. What's one more time?


End file.
